


The One You're With

by sysrae



Series: The Fisher King [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bisexual Prompto, Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining, Semi-angry sex, gladio wants ignis, porn with a soupçon of plot, prompto wants noctis, tent hookups, they try to work it out with each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 23:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11345085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: “You’re staring,” Gladio says, not looking up from his book.





	The One You're With

It happens during one of the prince’s fishing trips, a frequent enough occurrence that even Prompto, with his unusually high tolerance for watching Noctis self-occupy, has opted to stay in camp with the others. Ignis is engaged in dinner preparations, and while it’s not actually raining, it’s cold and damp enough near Noctis’s riverbank of choice that both Prompto and Gladio have sequestered themselves in the tent. It’s not the first time they’ve ended up waiting together; it’s not even the first time it’s happened while Gladio is shirtless. But it _is_ the first time that Gladio has opted to prop himself against the tent wall opposite to read a book, one leg bent sideways, a forearm braced against his knee, the other splayed obscenely and pointlessly open. The book is large and green and Prompto has been staring in its general vicinity for fifteen solid minutes without managing to absorb the title, thanks to Gladio’s, well – _everything_.   

Prompto has long since come to terms with his total, flustering ineptitude in the face of physical beauty. Men, women, whoever; it doesn’t matter. Pretty people make his mouth water and his heart race, and while he’d once held out hope that prolonged exposure to Gladio – and, let’s face it, Ignis and Noctis, too – would serve as inoculation against their charms, in reality, it only makes things worse. He tries not to creep on Gladio, he _does_ , but here and now, his sheer physicality is kind of overwhelming.

“You’re staring,” Gladio says, not looking up from his book.

Prompto jumps. “Am not!”

Gladio chuckles, darting an amused glance. “Hey, it’s okay. I get it. I’d want to look at me, too.”  

“You are such an ass.”

“Got a great one of those, too,” says Gladio, turning the page. He makes a show of pretending to look Prompto over. “Yours could use some work, though.”

“Could not!”

Gladio raises an eyebrow. Prompto flushes all over. The eyebrow hitches marginally higher, Gladio’s expression turning thoughtful.

“Hey, you wanna rub one out, I can always go keep His Highness company for a stretch.”

Prompto feels himself turn even redder. “ _What?_ Why would you even _–_ I’m not – I, I don’t, uh –”

“C’mon, relax. It’s not a big deal. We share rooms a lot; it’s not like we get a hell of a lot of privacy.” He leers. “Unless you want me to stick around and help out?”

It’s meant as a joke. It’s _clearly_ meant as a godsdamn joke, but Prompto freezes like he just got hit with a facefull of ice elemancy, and Gladio, who isn’t stupid, notices.

“Huh,” he says, grin slipping a little wider. “So that’s how it is.” He puts his book down carefully, legs shifting wider. Prompto tracks the motion without even meaning to. He wrenches his gaze upwards, searching desperately for any sign that Gladio is mocking him, that some awful-cruel joke is about to lash out like a demon whip and make him curl into himself, and finds none. Gladio’s smirk remains intact, but his dark eyes soften.

“It’s okay, you know.” He drags a hand up his own inner thigh, skin pale against the leather. “You’re allowed to want things, Prompto.”

“Things, yes,” Prompto gulps, finding his words at last. “Unattainable people, not so much.”

“Unattainable’s out fishing,” Gladio says, his voice too intimate for such a cruel truth. “But I’m right here.”

Prompto grips his bedding hard, scarcely breathing. He knew – has always known – that what he feels for Noctis is transparent to everyone but the prince himself, but that doesn’t mean he likes being reminded of his own pathos.

“I don’t need your pity,” he snaps, more sharply than he’s ever spoken to Gladio.

The shield’s eyes flash. “Pity’s not what I’m offering.”

“You don’t want me,” Prompto says, astonished to find that this, too, hurts. “You never have.”

“Don’t tell me what I want!”

“Why not? You just did it to me!” He comes to his knees and moves closer, waving a hand at the (mercifully shut) tent flap. “You wanna talk about who you it is you’d rather have in here?”

Gladio surges forwards, matching Prompto’s stance. “Listen,” he growls. “You wanna fight, fine – we’ll go outside and make it a training exercise. But that’s not how this started, and I don’t think it’s how you wanna end it, either.”

He’s big and close and ought to be terrifying, but the bite in his voice is belied by the gentle thumb he presses to Prompto’s cheek. Prompto inhales raggedly and tips his head up, pushing into the contact.

“Show me, then,” he says, and shudders all over when Gladio leans in and kisses him.

It’s far from gentle, but there’s nothing quite rough about it, either. Gladio grips his hip and squeezes, drawing him close as Prompto, helpless, lets out a choking whimper. Gladio grins into the kiss and keeps up his manhandling, pulling Prompto back and back until he stumbles, all but falling into Gladio’s lap.

“There you go,” Gladio murmurs, sounding far too pleased with himself. He’s back against the tent wall again, Prompto’s skin flashing hot-cold-hot as he straddles Gladio’s lap. The hand on his hip migrates to his ass and squeezes again, all playful intent. “There you go, c’mon.”

“Shut up,” Prompto pants, and kisses him as hard as he can, thin fingers gripping the tattooed muscle of his arms. He grinds down against him, hard in his pants and unable to keep from whining a little at the discovery that Gladio is, too. Gladio’s hands slide up his back and under his shirt, hot and huge, and gods, for all the time Prompto spends agonising about being shorter and smaller than the other guys, it makes no sense that Gladio’s size is suddenly a turn-on, but it _is_.

“Shit,” gasps Gladio, bucking up against him. “You wanna do it just like this, huh? No hands?”

“I never said that,” says Prompto, snaking an arm down between them. He’s shaky as hell, but there’s something steadying in the knowledge that Gladio’s also lost his composure, even if it’s ultimately because of someone else. They’re both pent up, both pining, and Prompto’s fingers make nimble work of their flies. He shivers to feel them together, unable to look away as Gladio pulls a hand from his back and closes it around their cocks, the sensation deliciously slick-rough from precum and callouses.

Gladio kisses him again, a messy attempt that smears their mouths together. Prompto pants into it, then ducks his head, forehead pressed to Gladio’s neck. They’re both sweating in the close air of the tent, clothes sticking damply to eager skin. The eagle wrapped around Gladio’s shoulders flexes in time with his breathing, rippling as if in attempted escape. Prompto bites at his throat, as much in frustration as to hear the noise it elicits, and gasps in turn as Gladio works them tighter.

Prompto comes with Gladio’s free hand twined in his hair, tugging as his nails dig into the scalp. Shuddering, Prompto rides it out, then grabs at Gladio’s sticky fingers, prising him off himself. He takes over, tight and fast, his own release slicking the way until Gladio groans and comes all over his pretty abs, white spattering high enough to overlay his tattoos. Their breathing is harsh in the aftermath, Prompto’s heartbeat crazy against his ribs.

“Did that really just happen?” he manages, face pressed to Gladio’s shoulder.

Gladio chuckles, gratifyingly breathless. “Yeah, it did.” He loosens his grip on Prompto’s hair, palm curling with an odd, possessive gentleness against the nape of his neck. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” says Prompto, a laugh in his voice. He lifts his head a little, meeting Gladio’s gaze. “Are you?”

“Right as rain.”

They look at each other, smiling and silly. Prompto feels something unknot in his chest. His lips part – maybe to kiss Gladio and maybe to speak, he doesn’t know.

Something thwaps hard into the tentflap, a double-knock rhythm that makes them both jump.

“Dinner is ready!” Ignis calls. “Come out before it gets cold!”

“Coming!” Prompto yelps, scrambling hastily out of Gladio’s lap.

Gladio sniggers unhelpfully, casting around for a cloth. “What, already?”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Prompto mutters, flushing as he struggles to do himself up without staining his pants. But he smiles as he says it, and when he glances at Gladio, the shield huffs a laugh and tosses him a towel for his hands. Prompto cleans himself up, straightens his clothes and moves to unzip the tent flap, wondering distantly when he’s going to start to panic about this.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder. “Hey,” Gladio murmurs. “We’re good, right?”

Outside, the crunch of boots on stone and the drifting scent of river-fresh fish announces the return of Noctis. Prompto undergoes a second of odd, dislocating guilt, then chuckles at the absurdity of it.

“Yeah, dude,” he says, turning to look at Gladio. “We’re good.”

Gladio’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “Cool,” he says, and knocks their shoulders together as Prompto opens the tent.

**Author's Note:**

> Marked as the first in a series because my brain insists on having an entire headcanon about the timeline for sexytimes that happen in this stupid game and I'll probably end up writing at least one more of them. Title from Love the One You're With by Crosby, Stills and Nash.


End file.
